Tea and Coffee
by JellyTardis
Summary: Sherlock/OC. After John's moved out to live with Sarah, how will Sherlock cope with John's niece? T for later chapters.
1. Coffee

**Author's note -This is my very first fan fiction, please review and let me know how I'm doing! xx**

"You're in a bad mood," said Sherlock without looking up from his newspaper.

"What?" Rebecca shot him a sharp look, clutching her steaming mug tightly. Sherlock sighed, swung his gangly legs out from under him and walked over to her.

"You've tied your hair up," he said, "You're drinking coffee from the biggest mug we have, you're wearing that baggy jumper and –" at this point he got surprisingly close and actually sniffed her hair, "You had chocolate for breakfast."

She stepped back and just glared at him for a few seconds.

"A simple 'What's wrong?' would have been better you know."

She slammed her coffee on the table and stomped back up the stairs.

/

When the door to her bedroom had crashed shut behind her, Rebecca hurled herself on to her bed.

It was just homesickness, that's all. It came in infrequent waves, albeit strong ones. Adapting to life in London had been difficult, still was difficult. Everything was so, so... southern. And she missed her mum. She needed a shoulder to cry on, but that was never going to be Sherlock.

Groaning, she realised she would regret her little outburst later. She knew she shouldn't have been so harsh with Sherlock, after two years of living with him she should have gotten used to him and his ways. But some days, when her temper was short and her hair wild, she snapped at him so very easily. Though come to think of it, she was doing well. The thought of moving out had never even crossed her mind. Her uncle, John Watson, had warned Rebecca that Sherlock might be difficult to put up with when she made the decision to take on the flat share after he had moved out to live with Sarah.

She half-smiled. "Difficult to put up with" didn't even cover it. But no-one could say it wasn't interesting, living with Sherlock. She grinned into her pillow, bad mood and homesickness of earlier dissipating into contentedness. She liked interesting.


	2. Tea?

**_Hi everyone. I own nothing! I hope this is going ok, next chapter is much more interesting I promise. Please review to let me know how I'm getting on. :)_**

Rebecca awoke to see Sherlock standing at the foot of her bed. He was staring at her, head cocked to one side with his curly hair everywhere as though he'd been running his long fingers through it. Which, knowing Sherlock, he probably had.

"You could just ask me," she said.

"Ask you? Ask you what?" he replied, frowning a little now.

"What was up this morning. You don't need to deduce everything from my bloody pyjamas."

He smiled a little at this. She loved it when he smiled - simply because he didn't do it too often. It was almost like they were friends when he smiled. She shook herself. Sherlock didn't have friends, apart from her uncle; he had said it himself enough times. Still, the picture of her friends from university utterly _melting_ at the sight of his handsome grin almost made her giggle. She snapped back to reality when Sherlock spoke.

"It's not your pyjamas that are important, I got everything I needed to know from the photo on your –".

He didn't have chance to finish the sentence, as Rebecca had hurled a pillow at him. It struck him squarely on the nose.

He was still spluttering with indignation as she motioned for him to sit on the bed next to her. He didn't move. Rebecca rolled her eyes.

"I'm not asking you to bloody marry me, Sherlock. Look, I'm sorry about this morning, I was just feeling – "

"Homesick," he finished.

Sometimes she forgot who she was talking to.

Sighing, she nodded.

"I feel better now though. Mostly. Anyway, I wanted to ask you something. Next Thursday night, will you cancel whatever you're doing?"

He looked scandalised.

"But what if something really _interesting_ comes up?"

"Just for two hours or so, just for dinner," she said quickly, "then you can go and impress the police as much as you like."

He was giving her that look again, head cocked and eyebrows raised.

"And the important thing about Thursday is?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You know fine well, Sherlock Holmes – "

"You're right. I do. Now," he said, spinning on his heels and heading towards the door, "Want some tea?"

"Coffee."


	3. Birthday Surprises

_**I own nothing! Thank you so much to the reviewers! Please carry on letting me know how I'm doing. x**_

Thursday evening rolled around and Sherlock was standing outside Rebecca's room looking at his watch. He hoped she would hurry up, he was getting bored. He sighed and rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Are we going out tonight or should I start dissecting that cat?"

"Two minutes!" came the reply. There was an erratic knocking sound on the floorboards and then a bang followed by a selection of choice swear words from Rebecca. The door burst open.

"I could have helped with those buckles, if you'd have asked." He was pointing at her shoes, which had been the cause of her hopping around the bedroom like a mad kangaroo and then shouting at the dresser. It had got in her way.

Rebecca watched Sherlock study her, taking in her new dress, a sparkling red and black affair with matching jewellery. She wasn't really one for dressing up, so she really had made an effort. Not that he'd appreciate it.

"You look ... different," he said, smiling.

"Oh really? I was hoping for nice!" she said, elbowing him in the ribs and smirking, "Come on then, before you get out your scalpel. Let's go."

\\\\

Rebecca and Sherlock had been sitting at the restaurant for over an hour and they still hadn't ordered food. They'd just talked.

Sherlock couldn't seem to fathom how Rebecca could be continually interested in all his little observations of the people who came in the restaurant.

"That's amazing!" she'd grin when he'd point out that the waiter was having an affair or that the woman in the blue dress had at least 12 cats. Maybe she was more like her uncle than he'd realised.

"It's nice this," she said, sipping her drink, "just having a chat. We should do this more often, just us. Instead of running all over bloody London as per usual. Instead of me filling in for the skull." She chuckled.

Sherlock smiled quickly, but then looked away.

"What is it?" she asked, concerned. She swore she could see guilt playing over his features.

"Sherlock, what have you-"

She was distracted before she could finish the sentence. Distracted by a very familiar voice from across the room. Very familiar _voices_ in fact. She looked up and recognised the cluster of people standing in the doorway. A group of her friends.

"Oh god. Sherlock, tell me you didn't."

He looked up from his glass.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he said flatly. Blue-grey eyes burned into her. He really didn't get it.

"How did you even do it?"

"You left your phone in the living room last week. I texted them all. Pretending to be your boyfriend." He added the last part very quietly, as though hoping she wouldn't hear.

Oh rookie mistake, Rebecca, she scolded herself. How many times had her uncle told her never to leave her phone lying around?

"Pretending. To. What?" she asked, her voice as icy as the one Sherlock used to talk to Anderson. Her knuckles were white on the stem of her wine glass and all the laughter had slipped from her face.

"Well," he began quickly, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd of Rebecca's friends, "I thought I might look less like a creepy flat mate then. You always complain about how Noemi gets at you for being single. And I won't have to embarrass any of your friends if they, ahem, make advances. Married to my work, you know. They were supposed to be your birthday present. Mycroft said it would be nice, stave off the homesickness..." His voice trailed off under her stare.

"You're looking at me like when I didn't know what a Game Man was. Like you don't know whether to laugh or punch me."

"Game Boy, Sherlock. Game _Boy_," she muttered, looking away.

"Except... you look sad."

"No, Sherlock. Thank you; it's a lovely present, _really," _she replied in a rather strained voice, "Really thoughtful and everything. Let's go and erm, introduce you to everyone."

Oh dear. Oh hell. He was going to hate this, and to be honest, she was pretty sure she was too. Her friends wouldn't be able to keep their mouths shut now, all the things they could tell him, all the things she'd said... Oh God.

She was going to kill Mycroft.


	4. Dinner falls apart

_**A/N Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to review! Hope you're enjoying it. :)**_

_**I don't own Sherlock unfortunately. *cry***_

After 15 minutes of all the giggling, Sherlock seriously began to consider killing someone. He didn't even care about the look on Sally Donovan's face when they found him standing over the body, he was so bored. They were all laughing about some inane joke about one of the lecturers from their old Uni. Jesus. Didn't anyone talk about anything _interesting?_ Blood. Bones. Fingerprints. _Anything._ And if just one more of these harpies twanged one of his curls he was going to snap.

Trying to think less violent thoughts, he stole a glance at Rebecca. She was leaning slightly away from him and seemed to be trying very hard not to look at him. She was laughing with the girl next to her, (about Lady bloody Gaga, who the hell was that?), but it wasn't her usual laugh, her eyes remained cold and there was no colour in her cheeks. Her right hand was shaking slightly around her wine glass, the pink liquid sloshing a little. This was odd in itself; she didn't usually drink alcohol, when at restaurants she would drink lemonade like she had been doing earlier. She'd said alcohol was a drug and was therefore awful for your health. He smirked at the memory of this little argument. She gulped down caffeinated drinks like they were going out of style, but turned her nose up at Oddbins. So why was she drinking it now? It was worrying. He frowned, trying to remember everything John and Mycroft had ever told him about women,and wished he had brought his notes.

\\\\

An hour passed and while everyone was enjoying dessert, the questions that Rebecca had been expecting the whole evening began.

Ivy was first, her Sunderland accent thicker now she was slightly tipsy.

"Sooo, how did it happen?" she asked, looking pointedly at Sherlock and gesturing with her spoon.

Rebecca looked at Sherlock, unsure what to say. It was the first time she had looked at him in a long while. She noticed the slight knitting of his brow and how fake his grin was. Oh no.

He filled in for her, always the perfect actor. She almost smirked when she heard the voice he was using, his "normal people" voice. She thought he sounded rather camp.

"Well, one day we were in the park and..."

Rebecca didn't really need to listen to what he said; she knew he had the situation covered. She swirled the rosé round in her glass, she knew Sherlock didn't understand why she was so upset. But he'd find out soon. It wouldn't be long before some of the more tipsy girls started teasing her, and then he'd _know. _It would seem illogical to him; she should be happy to see her friends on her birthday. But she just wasn't. Truth be told, she was angry with half of her friends for not emailing or calling enough, for abandoning her in this grey bloody city. Truth be told, she was having much more fun sitting with Sherlock poking fun at the other diners. Truth be told, she enjoyed his company quite a lot more than she had ever let on to Sherlock. Oh dear, this dinner was going to ruin everything. Bloody, bloody Mycroft.

Her sulking was interrupted by Naomi, making another comment about her non-existent relationship with Sherlock.

"I know you said he was a babe, Bex, but I wasn't expecting this," she laughed, leaning over the table to grin at Sherlock, "Look at those cheekbones! Didn't mention those in your e-mails did you? And you're so right, he looks bloody fantastic in a suit!"

Rebecca closed her eyes. Oh damn. Breathe. In. Out. Concentrate on how you're going to murder Mycroft. In. Something to do with that umbrella. Out. That would be terribly satisfying. In.

"Aaw, it's just so cute!" squealed Jessica, who was positively beaming. "Seeing how you've fancied him for ages, don't blush, I remember every phone call where you talked my ear off about how amaaaazing he is and how in love with him you are. And you said he'd never like you! Look at you two now!"

Rebecca squirmed. Oh god, that'll have done it. Oh _god _this can't be happening. Say something. _Anything._ Oh, what she wouldn't give for Lestrade to bound in right now. Oh hell. She could feel Sherlock staring at her, practically lasering a hole in the side of her head. Her face was burning.

"I need a cigarette," he said in a cold voice, his jolly "normal person" tones totally forgotten, standing up and moving towards the exit. The door slammed shut behind him.

She almost burst into tears then. She'd known this was going to happen from the second she saw the group enter the restaurant. Everything was falling apart.

"Sod it," she mumbled, taking another swig of wine and, almost knocking over the waiter bringing hot drinks to the table as she did so, she rushed after Sherlock.


	5. Stupid

_**A/N: **_**HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE.**___I'm sorry this has taken such a long time but I hope it's worth the wait. :)_

Sherlock raced around the corner, not really looking at where he was going. Left. Right. Right again. He didn't care where he ended up, just as long as he was as far away from that restaurant as he could get.

For once in his life, he didn't understand what was happening. Why were those girls saying all this? Rebecca must have been lying to them. Why though? What was the point? He'd have noticed if she _liked_ him, he'd have seen it. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Leaning up against a wall, he fumbled around in his pocket for the cigarettes he had stashed there. His hands were shaking. Where were they? He could have sworn he'd put them in here this morning. Slightly puzzled, all he found was a post-it note stuck to a box of nicotine patches.

_Nice try Sherlock. ;)_

_x_

Rebecca's handwriting. Seeing the note seemed to jolt his memory. A hundred little moments flashing through his mind. Rebecca straightening his collar at a crime scene. Waking up on the settee after a hard case having been covered in a blanket. Homemade fairy cakes with sugar skulls on his desk when he returned from the morgue. A steaming mug of tea on his bedside table on an especially cold morning…

Oh God he was so _stupid._ He needed to call John.


	6. A turn for the worse

Rebecca stumbled out of the restaurant. She had only had a couple of glasses of rosé, yet she felt drunk. This whole thing had absolutely blindsided her. Her vision was blurred, tears streaming down her face. She couldn't believe it. She had ruined everything. There was no way Sherlock would want to continue living with her now, not now that he _knew._ Oh where was he? She ran around the corner, into an alleyway. She needed to explain, to apologise. He wasn't here. She slumped against the wall and sobbed.

/

She remembered when she first realised she was falling for him. They were at a crime scene, triple murder, and blood absolutely everywhere. Her shoes were ruined. She had been standing at the edge of the crime scene with Lestrade, watching Sherlock do his thing, (_"Serrated weapon, obviously. Oh this is brilliant!"), _when Sally Donovan came up beside her.

"How _do_ you put up with him?" she had asked.

Rebecca watched Sherlock work for another few seconds. His hair was a total mess and there was a splotch of blood on his nose, his piercing eyes were darting around the scene so fast they were blurred. He stopped and looked up.

"Rebecca!" he called "Come and see!" Head cocked to one side, his face was split with a huge grin; he looked like a little boy who had just rediscovered a favourite toy. Rebecca realised she was smiling too.

"Oh you know," Rebecca answered as she ducked under the police tape, "It's difficult but you get through it…"

/

A harsh voice shook her from her memory.

"You alright darlin'?"

A man's voice, from the darkness. She didn't answer, held her breath.

"Because you don't look alright…" He was coming closer now; she could see his outline in the dim light. That glint, was that a…?

"Now just give me your handbag darlin' and I won't have to hurt you."

Oh no. This wasn't happening. She clenched her fists.

"Listen mate," she said, "Just turn around and walk away, you don't have to do this."

"Mate?" said the man, even closer now, he barely looked any older than she was, "Oh you're _definitely_ not from round here are you? Seems I've found myself a lost little northerner. Now what shall I do with her…?"

"**SHERLOCK!" **


	7. A Phonecall

"John? John! Christ, answer the phone!" Sherlock shouted at his mobile. He shook it up and down in frustration, as if that would help. Surprisingly, it began to vibrate in his hand. He jabbed savagely at the green answer button.

"Sherlock? What the hell is the matter? You've rang me 37 bloody-"

Sherlock cut John off mid sentence.

"John! Listen to me. It's Rebecca, she-"

Now it was John talking over Sherlock.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock! What's happened? What have you done? Is she alright?"

"No no, John, calm yourself. It's nothing like that. Physically she's perfectly sound. Apart from that caffeine addiction, obviously."

"Then what is so urgent that – wait. Physically she's fine, so emotionally…?" John sounded even more worried now, if that were possible.

The whole story poured out of Sherlock, from the dinner to her friends and then details about her behaviour around Sherlock. He spoke so rapidly it was difficult for John to keep up.

John fell silent on the other end of the phone.

"Well," Sherlock asked anxiously, surprised at the tremble in his own voice, "What does it mean?"

"Why are you asking me, Sherlock? I think you know."

Sherlock did know. But he'd wanted to be wrong. He frowned. He didn't think he'd ever wanted to be wrong before.

"John," he asked in a small voice, "John, what do I do?"

John sighed. Sherlock could almost hear John's pained expression in his voice; this was his niece they were talking about after all.

"What do you want to do, Sherlock? How do you actually feel about her?"

Feel? _Feel?_ Feelings were difficult. Not his area.

"I…I…" Sherlock stuttered, stumbling over his words before composing himself, "I hold her in my highest regard as my colleague", he said flatly.

"Okay Sherlock," said John. He sounded so tired all of a sudden. "Just promise me you'll let her down gently, alright? Don't hurt her, be nice. Promise me."

"I promise," replied Sherlock, ending the call with a click.

Then he heard Rebecca scream.

"**SHERLOCK!"**


End file.
